ebb and flow
by SongofThunder
Summary: His life ebbs and flows like the tide, ending and beginning in a vicious cycle.


He wakes up.

He is used to the fleeting shreds of sleep by now. How long has he been there? A quick glance at the sun, then at the slate still hooked to his hip, tells him two hours at most. He is tired. He has been sleeping fitfully ever since the day he set foot outside the Plateau, and he needs to rest for longer.

Still, he finds as he rolls over and hisses at the sharp pain that stabs at his side, he cannot return to the slumber he began in. This is normal, for him. This is routine, to stand up, to straighten the old, threadbare shirt he has lived in, to gather his bag and his slate before checking the bright pinpoint on an otherwise dark and empty map and setting off.

His destination should be soon now. And then maybe he can regain some of what he lost. Although, he does not feel its absence. How can you yearn for something you have forgotten? He trails his eyes over the rolling hills and pays no attention to the footprints he leaves in the dust.

Something in the distance catches his eye, and he lifts his gaze to the horizon, just to his left.

Smoke.

Slightly over the forest, a trailing cloud of pale, drifting grey, almost white against the deep, cloudless blue of the sky.

He glances at the path ahead. Kakariko is supposedly not far, only a day or two's walk, maybe. A week's, if he stops for some shrines on the way, or finds a way to make idle chitchat with the wandering travelers on the road.

But the smoke…

Where there is smoke, there is fire.

Sometimes, he may find an adventurer, like him; company when he has journeyed so long on his own. Sometimes, a camp, or a treasure. Perhaps even a shrine; he has found that before. And he could use more spirit orbs, or more areas to travel to. If he truly lost so much vitality a hundred years ago, he will need to regain it, and quickly. He knows that as he is there is no chance of defeating that terrible horror that shrieks and howls and claws at its prison in the castle on the horizon.

A detour will not hurt, he decides. Impa has waited for a hundred years. She can wait a day or two more.

He glances down at the mud, then, after a moment, clicks the slate button to pin where he is on the map. Then, once this is over, he can return to where he left off.

He must hurry if he is to find the source. Rain is coming, according to the Slate. And he has no wish to try and find fire in the middle of a downpour.

He half runs, half walks the entire way there. The forest is welcome, familiar almost, as he weaves between the shafts of sunlight streaming through the trees.

There.

He shifts through the grass to notice a camp- one of the skull-shaped rocks he has found on his travels. Not for the first time, he wonders how on earth these stupid, idiotic creatures he sees before him, dancing and balancing precariously on the teetering lookout posts, carved a work of art such as this. Primitive, but he has to admit, it looks incredibly intimidating.

Nocking an arrow, he listens to the shaft quietly scrape the bow, the only sound to let anyone know he was there.

He lets fly.

The first arrow slashes through an eye before the creature disappears in a puff of smoke. The second, through the heart, and the bokoblin barely has time to cry out before it, too, vanishes.

Quickly and quietly, he moves closer, staying to the walls, steps lighter than air.

He glances in.

Three blue bokoblins, each armed with an iron blade glinting in the quickly-fading sunlight.

That should have been his first warning.

But instead his eyes drift to the chest to the right, carved into a skull and marked with bright, glowing eyes.

It could hold a weapon, or a gem, or perhaps something else. Either way, it would be helpful.

He takes a step, and freezes when a branch cracks under his foot.

He has been spotted.

He scrambles backward and almost trips when the Bokoblins, mottled with blue and brown, roar and charge toward him.

He blocks one with a shield, a pot lid stolen from the ruins of another traveler's camp, and hisses in annoyance when he realizes his weapon is nothing but a stick, a barely-finished club. But before he can attack again, another flanks him from the side and strikes.

Before he can blink, he's on the ground, crying out from the blood marring his ribs. He isn't sure if one is broken, but it definitely feels like it.

He roars in agony and barely-suppressed anger and hefts the club to bring it down on the bokoblin's back.

The club swings down on blue skin- and shatters.

He pales, and the world roars in his ears, _you failed, you failed, you failed._

He has made a mistake. The creature in front of him laughs with a piggish, ugly sound that grates in his ears. It raises the sword. Its comrades follow suit.

The world slows down- he is surrounded, and if he tries to run he will simply impale himself on a sword.

He wonders how long the world has left, now that he is to die.

_I'm sorry_, he thinks in a moment of startling clarity, to no one, to everyone he once knew. _I'm sorry I let you down._

The blade collides with his throat seconds after.

* * *

_…_

_No._

_…_

_This is not right. This is not how the story ends._

_…_

_…_

_Wake up, Link._

_…_

_…_

_…_

**_Wake up_**.

* * *

He wakes up.

He is used to the fleeting shreds of sleep by now. How long has he been there? A quick glance at the sun, then at the slate still hooked to his hip, tells him two hours at most. He is tired. He has been sleeping fitfully ever since the day he set foot outside the Plateau, and he needs to rest for longer.

Still, he finds as he rolls over and hisses at the sharp pain that stabs at his side, he cannot return to the slumber he began in. This is normal, for him. This is routine, to stand up, to straighten the old, threadbare shirt he has lived in, to gather his bag and his slate before checking the bright pinpoint on an otherwise dark and empty map and setting off.

His destination should be soon now. And then maybe he can regain some of what he lost. Although, he does not feel its absence. How can you yearn for something you have forgotten? He trails his eyes over the rolling hills and pays no attention to the footprints he leaves in the dust.

Something in the distance catches his eye, and he lifts his gaze to the horizon, just to his left.

Smoke.

Slightly over the forest, a trailing cloud of pale, drifting grey, almost white against the deep, cloudless blue of the sky.

He glances at the path ahead. Kakariko is supposedly not far, only a day or two's walk, maybe. A week's, if he stops for some shrines on the way, or finds a way to make idle chitchat with the wandering travelers on the road.

But the smoke…

He shakes his head and trudges on. He can't afford any detours. _Impa_, or whatever the King called her, awaits.

And besides, the ash snaking through the sky gives him an ominous, foreboding feeling.

Almost, he thinks, as if he had been there before.


End file.
